


enter exit (enter)

by louisandthealien



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1980s, American AU, Angst, Break Up, College AU, First Love, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Growing Up, Heart Break, High School AU, M/M, Pining, Puppy Love, Study abroad au, The harry/omc is not detailed nor is it "on screen", ambiguous ending, bad era, but it's positive, civil engineer louis, environmentalist harry, it's 2:45 AM and i don't know how to tag this but, musings on astrology, they love michael jackson's music in this, thriller era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 08:05:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8048683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisandthealien/pseuds/louisandthealien
Summary: When he’s finally in the hotel, crammed into the tiny phone booth, all he can do is stare at the faded paper sign glaring down at him from the wall.1 Minute = 11.82 USD Mexico --> United StatesHe has less than a minute to break his boyfriend’s heart, and it’s going to cost him twelve bucks to do it.There’s sand under his fingernails as he dials the number.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lalalaartje](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lalalaartje/gifts).



> Hi! This was my first attempt at pinch hitting (oh my god) and this whole fic was written in about 6 days. It was betaed by the lovely ohthisisawkward from over on tumblr! Thank you so much for all your help during this massive time crunch.
> 
> The prompt for the exchange was:
> 
> "Harry and Louis have always been HarryAndLouis. As long as they or any of their friends can remember. It's not really a surprise when they become a couple somewhere in high school, and everyone expects them to go to Uni together and get married and have a million babies. However, through some twist of fate and with an opportunity Louis can't deny, he ends up studying abroad, and it's not that they don't try, but the long distance thing isn't working. So they break up. It's only 10 years later that they meet again. They've both moved on, had (or have) new partners, maybe (plan to have) kids, but somehow, they're still HarryAndLouis and the pull is impossible to ignore."
> 
> The interpretation is fairly liberal, but it follows that general flow.
> 
> Sorry to everyone that got bombarded by messages, texts, and snaps as I forced myself through writing this. Thank you for your support!
> 
> **
> 
> authors have been revealed! thank you for those of you that left lovely reviews while it was still on anon!

****

**December 24th— Capricorn** **February 1st— Aquarius**

**Strengths:** disciplined,                                                      **Strengths:** progressive,  original,      

responsible                            independent

 

 **Weaknesses:** know-it-all,                                                 **Weaknesses:** emotional,

condescending, expecting the worst                                independent

 

 **Capricorn likes:** recognition,                                            **Aquarius likes:** fun with friends,                     

authenticity, family                             fighting for causes

**Capricorn dislikes:** laziness,                                           **Aquarius dislikes:** dull situations,

fakeness                                                    people who disagree with them

                                                                                     

——

**May 1982**

The night of their Junior Prom, Louis spills half a tub of Crisco on the fabric seats of his stepdad’s brand new Camaro.

He’s eighteen, and he’s never had sex before, and Liam had said that his cool older cousin Eric had said that Crisco would get the job done for half the price, half the mess (Which. Mess? Is there _normally_ a mess? What _kind_ of mess??), and zero of the shame of actually having to go to the cashier to Dominik’s and ask for one of the scary looking black bottles of lube they keep behind the counter along with the condoms and cigarettes. And neither Liam nor Louis was certain whether you actually had to specify anal over, like, _vaginal_ , and what if he bought the wrong kind? Or worse, what if the cashier asked him what he wanted and he had to announce it, and one of his neighbors or a friend of his mom’s was there and saw or heard it all go down?

Crisco seemed like a much safer option.

Except now it’s 2:30 in the morning, and Mark needs the car for work by 5:30, and there’s half a tub of greasy, oily white stuff slathered across the middle back seat, and Harry (holy fucking shit, _Harry)_ is completely naked across from him, legs opened at what is clearly an uncomfortable position, and Louis is three hours away from being a single, grounded virgin because there is no _way_ Harry is going to want to keep up with him, much less have _sex,_ and Mark’s going to murder him either way, so it’s not like they’d be able to see other ever again anyway.

“Oh. My God,” Louis finally whispers after what was probably a thousand year silence.

“Lou.” Harry’s eyes dart up. “Lou, it’s fine,” Harry says calmly, still as frozen in place as Louis. “We just. Um. We need something to soak it up. Like, um. Flour. Or corn starch or something.”

The car’s parked across from a street light right by Camelot Park, the burnt orange glow of the lamp just barely casting a shadow across Harry’s face, but from what Louis can tell, he looks calm and collected. And stupidly beautiful.

“My back door’s unlocked,” Harry continues, leaning over in search of his powder blue button down. “We can sneak in and see what my mom has, okay?”

An unbelievable amount of embarrassment and sexual frustration has his cheeks flaming red, but Louis says nothing as he watches Harry awkwardly slide his briefs and dress pants back on. He sighs and rubs a hand over his face, murderously staring back down at the huge, slimy stain before pulling his shirt on as well. They didn’t get far enough to need to put his slacks back on, which he sullenly tries to put out of his mind.

When they’re both up front, back in their crumpled clothes— suit jackets still strewn carelessly on the floor of the back seat— they sit in relative silence for a minute.

It’d just been such a good night. All of it. The suits. The stupid pictures. The pink boutonniere that Harry had given him (and that his mom had helped pin to his chest). It was just so incredibly good.

And he was— he sighs and curls his fingers around the steering wheel— he was going to ask Harry to be his boyfriend later that night is the thing. Harry “million friend” Styles. Harry “kiss and tell” Styles. Harry “the single coolest, cutest, most interesting, exciting, incredible person” Styles. Who had somehow taken interest in Louis right back, had invited him to parties and given him his first kiss, and skipped gym to hang out with him behind the caf on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He was _so fucking close._

So when Louis puts the key in the ignition and the engine revs up, he’s startled when he feels a hand soft on his thigh. He looks over and Harry’s got this smile on his face. He’s starting to get bags— it’s almost 3 AM after all— and he’s leaned up against the curve of the captain seat, chin sort of propped up, cheek sort of smushed, and he’s— the smile on his face is warm and a little sleepy, and he’s definitely on the verge of giggling, which somehow, someway brings Louis right to it too, and Harry says, burnt orange park light burning right behind him, “To be continued?”

Louis Tomlinson is 18 years old when, for the first time, he thinks he might be in love.

——

**September 1982**

“Babe!” Harry calls out, ripping through the halls, one arm just barely balancing the stack of books in his arms, the other frantically waving back and forth. “Louis! _Lou!”_

Louis had heard him the first time. How couldn’t he have? He could pick that loud, rumbling, obnoxiously deep voice out of any crowd. And more over, who the hell else would be calling his name like that?

All the same, he doesn’t bother turning, keeps carefully thumbing through his locker for that physics worksheet he’d tossed in there a few days back. He sniffles and rummages and doesn’t bother to control the automatic grin that always manages to pop up whenever a certain Harry Styles is within a twenty foot radius.

Just as his fingers close around the crinkled edges of Unit 3: Force and Motion, Harry comes barreling in, quite literally slamming into the locker one over.

 _“Louis!”_ he immediately whines when Louis doesn’t look up. The grin grows further and he’s just dicking around now, there’s nothing left to look for, but. God. What he wouldn’t give to be able to play coy for a measly ten seconds with this kid someday.

“Hazza,” he finally acknowledges him, trying for disapproving and settling for _(subtle)_ affection. “What’s up?”

Harry blinks at him slowly. “It’s our four month anniversary,” he says seriously.

Louis slams his locker shut and tries once again to relegate his constant adoration for this stupid, curly haired boy, but he ends up giggling through his eye roll. “Is it?” He knows it is. And he knows that they’re exactly the sort of couple to care.

“It is,” Harry confirms, lips twitching. “And during English, I thought of what we should do.”

“I mean,” Louis smirks, leaning his shoulder against his locker in a hideously terrible attempt at seduction. “I have a few ideas too.” Harry goes to swat him playfully, but Louis catches his wrist in time, pushing him away before entwining their fingers. The two minute warning bell sounds, and they automatically start off in the direction of the science wing, where, upon arrival, Harry will double around to go back up to History.

“We should go roller skating!” Harry announces proudly, fingers never leaving Louis’ for a second, even as they weave between the masses.

Louis shoots him a look. “Hazza.” Unpleasant visions of the last time they’d attempted roller activities flash through his mind. July 9th, 1982. Two months ago. It was a hard day for Harry’s knees— and not even in the satisfying sort of way.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Harry giggles, embarrassed. “Weak—”

“Ankles,” Louis finishes for him, pausing to let a freshman swerve around them in her haste. “So we’re all well aware that you have incredibly weak ankles, yet you think that a roller skate date is a good idea...why?”

Harry beams. “Niall said he saw a flyer at McDonald’s saying it’s a theme night at Orbit tonight!” Louis raises an eyebrow. “Guess the theme!”

“Uh…’50s?”

Harry shakes his head quickly, still beaming. “Michael Jackson. They’re gonna play the whole album!”

Louis’ reaction is visceral and immediate. “We’re going,” he says firmly.

Weak ankles be damned.

——

Louis’ stepdad didn’t kill him after The Crisco Incident.

In fact, it’s safe to say he never found out the truth at all. That night, they went into Harry’s house and snuck, hearts pounding and giggles stifled, into the kitchen through the back door. They grabbed whatever variety of powders they could find in the dark pantry, crept outside, and dumped them unceremoniously on the stain.

When an hour later it seemed like the majority of the Crisco itself had been blotted out, leaving behind a tell-tale dark patch on the light gray upholstery, it was Harry that had talked Louis through it. (Kissed him through it a little bit.)

And thus, thanks to mastermind Harry Styles, Louis draped his suit coat over the splotch and returned the car. When Mark came home from work that evening, a mildly petrified Louis offered to take the girls out for shakes under the entirely selfish guise of ‘giving his parents some peace,’ and engineered the situation just as Harry had dreamt it up the night before:

Situate the two twins in the backseat, nonchalantly take the tops off their shakes, instigate some sort of playfight, Lottie and Fizzy included, and wait for one of the little girls to spill her treat everywhere because, if there’s one thing to be counted on, it’s a messy six year old.

Thirty minutes later after many tearful apologies on all parts, (“I didn’t mean to spill!” “It was an accident!” “It’s not their fault, I shouldn’t have taken off the lids!”) Emergency: Crisco was resolved, just as Harry had predicted.

A sticky ice cream stain of verifiable origin? Louis could cope with that blame.

A greasy, mysterious dark splotch the night after swearing up and down that “We won’t do anything! Please, Mom, come on!” ? Not so much.

So, blissfully ungrounded and somehow how still, amazingly, in possession of Harry Styles’ attention is how the summer going into Louis’ Senior Year started. Free to hangout and go on ‘adventures’ and all together dick around with his brand new _boyfriend_ . And, of course, their joint One True Love: Michael Jackson’s _Thriller._

——

In the summer of 1982, there were three things that could be said for certain at any given moment: that _Thriller_ was the greatest album of all time, that _Thriller_ was on repeat in the Tomlinson household, and that Harry and Louis were together. Possibly listening to _Thriller_ , possibly not. But they were _together._ (And, in all honestly, probably listening to _Thriller.)_ But more than anything else, they were Together.

**June 2nd, 1982**

“Hey, Mrs. T. It’s Liam. Are Harry and Louis around?”

“Sure, Liam. Let me call him... _Louis!”_

And downstairs Louis bounds. After reluctantly separating himself from Harry’s lips, of course.

**June 31st, 1982**

“Hey, Mrs. T. This is Niall Horan. Louis and Harry there?”

 _“Louis!_ Phone!”

And although they make plans to hangout at the park with Niall and Liam, they somehow, sort of, show up two hours late.

“Got distracted,” Harry smirks.

Louis nervously fidgets with the bruise peeping over his shirt collar.

**July 15th, 1982**

“Hey, Mrs. T.”

_“Louis!”_

They don’t make it to Stan's party that night.

It’s just...E.T. is premiering on channel 9 and Harry suggested making cookies, and then Harry suggested some _other_ new, fun, delicious activities, and by the time that was done, the party was probably already in full swing, and Louis couldn’t imagine it could possibly be any more fun than cuddling with Harry on the couch in a sex daze as they yawned and kissed their way through that weird part of E.T where he gets sick and the kids ride their bikes away from the police.

**July 31st, 1982**

They skip out on checking out Liam’s new Atari because Harry gets the bright idea that they should drive to Canada. (It’s only like seven hours away, Lou!”) They make it just fine, but. Um. They get to the border and sort of panic (“What if we can’t get back in!”) and turn around and drive home.

It’s up there as some of the best fourteen hours of Louis’ life.

——

And that’s how the summer goes. They’re in a bubble before June’s half done, and everyday’s the best day because they spend every single day of the Summer of 1982 together.

Every. Single. Day.

Their friends don’t mind— not _really._ When they do manage to make it out of the house, they’re still fun, and they keep the PDA to a minimum, so. What else can one ask for? They tease them when they see them, and Niall says they’re basically married (Louis does _not_ have to bite down to hide his grin). Liam says they’re nauseating, but they know they’re not. They know they’re just two best friends in love. (Yeah. Love. That’s right. They said it ! A whole 27 days into dating!)

So they put _Thriller_ on repeat and just keep floating along.

——

“Do you think we’re crazy?” Louis asks quietly.

Harry’s response is immediate. “Yeah, totally. Why?”

It’s 4 AM and Louis is laying on his kitchen floor, phone cord stretched taut as he whispers. It’s ridiculous; they’ve been on the phone for hours, and they hung out earlier in the day, and they _shouldn’t have anything else to talk about!_

But they do. They always do.

“I just feel like…” he sighs, kicks his legs up against the cabinet and stares at the ceiling, “like, this summer couldn’t have possibly happened.” There’s silence then, just static over the line. “I can’t believe I met you.”

He can hear Harry’s smile over the phone, knows he’s got that dopey look on his face he always gets when they start being all mushy. “I know, babe. I love you so much.”

Louis doesn’t even have to think before he responds, because it’s wholeheartedly true. “I love you, too.”

Louis Tomlinson is 18 years old when he is absolutely positive that he is in love.

——

**September 1982**

_“_ _want to love you!”_ Harry belts.

Louis is on backup. _“P-Y-T!”_

_“Pretty young thing! You need some lovin'!”_

_“T-L-C!”_

_“Tender lovin' care!”_

They raise their air-mics in unison and yell out, _“And I'll take you there! Oh, oh, oh!”_

Roller skating is just as much a disaster as was predicted. Harry tumbles and falls, and he pulls Louis with him because their hands are clasped tight and neither would even think of letting go.

They’re four months into this little thing— this relationship—and Louis’ given up vaguely wondering when it’ll stop being like this. Because four months is a long time. It really, _really_ is, especially given that it _feels_ like four years at this point. And feelings matter more than time, don’t they?

So they shuffle around the rink, Harry clutching the wall for dear life, and Louis clutching onto Harry because, well, where else would he be? And they sing along to every single song on the album, even though they’ve heard them each ten thousand times, and they swear up and down that they’ll go to the concert whenever it comes to town.

The lights get all dark and sort of glowy for the ‘Couples’ Skate’ song, and Harry turns inwards, big, green eyes only half joking as he serenades Louis, _“You’ll always be the lady in my life,”_ along with Michael. Louis only half giggles before throwing his arms around Harry’s neck and kissing him like they aren’t in the middle of a cheesy, crowded skate rink.

“Wanna go outside a sec?” Harry asks, and Louis says yes because he knows even then that he’ll go anywhere Harry does. Anywhere he asks of him.

They shuck off their skates and walk in their socks to the parking lot where they plop down on the curb.

“Where do you see yourself in ten years?” Harry asks. It’s one of their favorite conversations, one they probably have bi-weekly in various forms.

“We could live in California,” Louis muses, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder.

We. Always we.

“Open up a beachfront bakery,” Harry agrees. He laces his fingers through Louis’ and raises them up, inspecting the way they fit together.

“Three babies before 23, of course,” Louis adds.

“Of course.” Married by 21. Babies by 23. They both like the idea of being young, hot parents.

A car honks at them from the street as it drives past, and Harry pretends to grab a rock and throw it towards them. It’s late September, just on the right side of autumn, and, not for the first time since he met Harry, Louis wishes he could make time stop in its tracks.

He turns to face his boyfriend— his curly haired, big smiled, big eyed boyfriend— but Harry’s already there, staring right back.

They watch each other for a minute. Staring. Breathing. And somehow the moment feels heavier than usual, heavier than it _normally_ is between them, which is saying a lot, and definitely too heavy for MIchael Jackson night at Orbit Skate Rink.

Louis just— he knows. He’s positive at 18 years old and after four months of dating that this is it, that _Harry’s_ it. He’s not even scared when he says it, which, they already talk about hypothetical bakeries and hypothetical babies and hypothetical marriage, but he wants to say it in a different way this time. With a different meaning.

“Harry Styles, will you marry me someday?”

Harry just grins and nods frantically before all but tackling him into the grass behind them.

——

**October 1982**

“Smell me.”

“Excuse me?”

Harry tilts his head, golden brown curls bouncing astray. “I haven’t used shampoo in a week. Just smell me!”

 _“Excuse me?”_ Louis repeats, highly affronted.

_“Lou!”_

Louis huffs, but leans in obediently. _Honestly_. The things he does for love. He sniffs once. Twice.

“It smells like hair?” he says blandly, confused. “Have you really not used shampoo in a week? That’s disgusting, Hazza.”

Harry straightens up, grinning proudly. “Vinegar and baking soda. Gemma said one of her friends does it all the time!” He adjusts the backpack draped haphazardly over one shoulder. “Turns out you don’t even need shampoo! It’s bad for the environment, you know.”

“Doesn’t baking soda and vinegar make a volcano?” Louis asks suspiciously, vague memories of 4th grade science class resurfacing. He reaches for Harry’s hand as they make their way to first period and doesn’t bother questioning what is only the latest in Harry’s new-found ‘It’s bad for the environment!’ phase.

Harry pinches his arm. “You wash the baking soda out before you use the vinegar, Lou! Come on. Do you use shampoo and conditioner at the same time?”

“So you _are_ using a shampoo,” Louis protests. “It’s just baking soda. No one said shampoo has to be a soap!”

“You should try it,” Harry ignores him, coming to a halt in front of Louis’ BC calc class. “It’s better for your hair.”

“And the environment,” Louis teases, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. He’s already trying to remember where his mom keeps the vinegar.

Five months and going strong.

Louis thinks he could live like this forever.

——

**October 1982**

Niall’s going to Illinois State. Liam got into Wesleyan. Louis’ best friend Stan says he got into DePaul. “We’re looking at Purdue,” Louis announces.

All five of them are sat at one of those ugly, purple-ish tables in the caf; they were supposed to go to Johnny’s Beef for lunch, but Liam’s the only one with a car. It’s in the shop this week, so back to the caf it is, like a bunch of freshmen babies.

“Where the hell is Purdue?” Niall asks, using the back of his spoon to fuss with his wilting hair.

“Indiana,” Louis answers promptly. “Cool school, right, Hazza?”

Harry makes a face. “If I can even get in.” He doesn’t seem too concerned one way or another as he spoons around a disgustingly mushy helping of brown and beige lunch line food. He picks at the styrofoam tray, but before he can even open his mouth, Niall and Louis finish his thought for him in unison.

_“Not recyclable!”_

“It’s not?” Liam asks, interest apparently piqued.

Louis smiles when Harry’s eyes light up right as he launches into a detailed explanation about landfills and non-degradables. He tries to focus in on the conversation, although it’s one he’s heard a thousand times, and steadfastly refuses to dwell on Harry’s comment.

_If I can even get in._

He doesn’t think about Harry’s dismal math grade at the moment. Absolutely doesn’t let himself remember that his ACT score is a whole six points lower than the Purdue average, because Harry had _promised_ that he was going to buckle down, study up, and retake the exam. And so what if that conversation was three weeks ago and the test is this Saturday. So what if Harry had skipped his math study group to go on a Spanish Club field trip last week. And to an Environment Club meeting the week before that. And straight up blow off the other one.

It’s okay because it’s October 29th and deadlines are next week and they have _a plan._

College together. Married by 21. Babies by 23.

Louis takes a bite of his ham on white and does. Not. Panic.

——

“What do we need to do to get Harry into Purdue?”

Ben’s at this desk, frozen where he’s sat hunched over a pile of paperwork, pen mid-air. “Hey, Louis,” he says dryling, lowering the pen. “Yes, please, come right in. I don’t like knocking or appointments anyways.”

Louis’ already perched on the arm of the rickety red armchair in front of his academic advisor’s desk, just as he has at least once a week since the beginning of the year.

“Ben—”

“Mr. _Winston.”_

“Right,” Louis rolls his eyes, undeterred. “I have a week—”

“ _Harry_ has a week—”

 _“We_ have a week! And he never went to his study group and he said he did okay on his last pre-calc quiz, which means he passed with a 61, and I don’t think he even knows where to go for the test Saturday, so at this point I’m seriously considering just going and taking it for him myself.” He points an accusatory finger. “You didn’t hear that—”

 _“Louis,”_ Ben cuts him off firmly. With one look at his face, Louis all but crumbles; he already knows what he’s going to say. “Louis, you’re right,” he sighs. “It’s a week out, and Harry hasn’t taken your bait.” He pauses to take off his glasses, and Louis wants to punch that serious, pitying look right off his face. “It’s not going to happen, Lou.”

He knows he sounds like a baby when he spits out “It has to.” in a strangled voice. But. Well. _It has to._ Purdue has the engineering program he’s looking at and it’s such a good school and Harry doesn’t even _know_ what he wants to study, so wouldn’t it make sense for them to go somewhere where at least _Louis_ knows what to do? That’s fair, right?

When he explains this all back to Ben, just as he has once a week since the beginning of the year, his palms are sweating and his shirt feels scratchy, because he knows exactly what Ben’s going to say once again.

“No. It’s not. That’s not fair, or _smart_ , at all, Louis.” He rubs the corner of his eye with the tip of his finger. “And either way, it’s not going to happen.”

In the end, Ben gives him a hug and pass for his next class because sometime during that whole god awful reality check, Louis apparently started crying.

He splashes cold water on his face in the grody bathroom no one ever uses at the back of the English wing, and the whole time all he can think about is how not upset with Harry he is. Because he isn’t. At all. _He’s not._ He mostly feels bad for not being there to walk with him to class, hopes he isn’t too worried that he hadn’t shown.

——

It's freezing outside— worse down by the creek behind his house where Louis' currently waiting, ass probably frozen on the rock he's seated on.  
He really hadn’t meant for it to be some dramatic thing when he'd called Harry's house half an hour prior, merely saying, "Hey. Meet me at the creek? We need to talk." But now, staring at the muddy, green water trickling past, sky overcast, silence all around, his stomach can't help but clench.

They don’t fight is the thing, Louis and Harry. They just don’t. They never have. Louis can’t even think of a time they’ve come _close_ to fighting. And it’s not that he thinks this is about to be a fight or anything. He doesn’t. He’s not even _mad._ It’s just that he’s had a pit in his stomach ever since he left Ben’s office this afternoon, and he’s afraid if he lets it show just how much this whole— _thing—_ is freaking him out, Harry will get upset too, and then Louis will cry, and if Louis cries, Harry will probably cry too, and he’s _not mad—_ he’s not! Because they don’t fight, and it’s just. What are they supposed to do now?

Louis had hoped he would’ve kept his cool, but has that ever been an option around Harry? Really? The instant he sees him pushing through the dead bushes off the side of the bank, his heart sinks. This is their spot. The creek. And it won’t be their spot once they go to college, and if they have to go to separate schools, they won’t have a spot at all, and—

“What are we gonna do?” he says softly.

Harry startles for some reason. He loses his footing and skids the last feet down the slope on his heels. He quickly recovers, never missing a beat. “What?” he asks, eyes wide.

Louis brings the cuff of his windbreaker up to his face, half pretending to scratch an itch, half blatantly hiding. “College.”

Harry doesn’t say anything as he crosses the short space to Louis’ rock. He’s silent almost a moment too long, and Louis’ breath catches because this is definitely starting to feel like it might become a— but they _don’t fight._  Harry pushes his shoulder slightly, forcing him to budge over and make room.

“I haven’t taken the test yet,” he finally offers. His voice is a little hollow, and Louis knows that he knows the truth too. It’s Louis’ turn to sit in silence then. Harry breaks it quick enough. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He wishes it were still summer.

He’s jarred from his staring contest with the stream by sniffling. His head shoots up— _no, no, no—_

Harry’s crying. Just a little. But from the red of his face and the way his jaw is clenched tight, throat repeatedly swallowing hard, it looks like it’ll soon be, um. A lot.

“Haz—,” Louis breathes, flinging his arms around his shoulders. “Hazza—”

“I’m not gonna pass the test, Louis,” Harry croaks out face absolutely screwed up in his determination not to cry.

Louis’ heart falls. “I—I know, babe.”

“I’m sorry,”

“No, no, Harry—”

“I’m sorry, Louis. I, I know,” he gulps, “I know I didn’t go to the study group. I—”

“It’s—”

“It’s not okay,” Harry shakes his head frantically. “I just—” he shifts, turning to face Louis head on, and Louis’ eyes widen, shocked by the desperation in Harry’s pleading eyes. “I’m not a math person, Louis!” he says forcefully. “I’m not! I’m just not! And I try in class, but—” a fresh wave of tears threaten to spill over “—it’s useless! And I hate it! And—” he curls inward, a hand reaching up to wipe at his eyes. “Purdue’s expensive, Lou. My mom…”

“I know,” Louis chokes out hurriedly, feeling worse and worse by the minute. “Hazza, I—”

“I’m paying for my school myself, Lou! You know that and I...I think I’m gonna finally start at the Cake Box next week, but that’s not— I—”

Louis tugs him in as hard as he can, arms entangling, pressing Harry’s cheek close against his own. He doesn’t know what to say and his eyes are welling up, and this is _definitely_ the end of the road then. He rubs a hand up and down Harry’s back, trying in vain to calm them both back down.

“I talked to Mr. Winston last week,” Harry mumbles, still breathing heavy. Louis frowns. Ben hadn’t mentioned that. “He thought maybe, like Northern might be a better option.”

Louis hesitates. “NIU?”

“Yeah. He said…” Harry fists his hand in the hem of Louis’ windbreaker. “He said they have a good environmental studies program,” he finishes shyly.

“Yeah?” Louis whispers, suddenly petrified.

“Yeah. And they’ve...they’ve got engineering too, you know?”

Louis swallows. His mind has suddenly managed to go both blank and off the rails at the same time. “I’ll...I’ll look into it, yeah? Let’s just see how the test goes on Saturday first…”

He kisses Harry’s cheek. The river trickles on.

——

The day of the test comes and goes.

Harry doesn’t get the score.

——

It’s not that Louis’ better at school than Harry is. He isn’t. He barely passed his English Comp last year, and it took Harry a whole weekend to even get him within salvation range of the final. So that’s not the issue.

It’s that while Louis is up for AP Scholar in both Calc and Chem, Harry’s out volunteering at the forest preserve and getting hired as an apprentice cake decorator at bakeries. And while Louis is slugging away with derivatives and labs, Harry’s in two Spanish classes and taking mandolin lessons on Wednesday afternoons. And it’s like suddenly all of this stuff, all of these _things_ that had made Louis fall for Harry in the first place— his yes-man attitude, his constantly changing obsessions and passions, his ability to make friends with anyone and everyone in every sector of his life as they pass through it— they’ve suddenly become symbols of what’s going to tear them apart in the end.

He skips history to barge into Ben’s office the next day. Ben shows him a brochure for NIU Engineering and the standards are… low. Lower than what he wants. Lower than what he knows he needs and deserves.

Ben doesn’t pressure him to talk once his little spiel is over. Louis just sits, not on the arm of the chair as usual, but on the actual cushion, elbows on his knees, palms cupping his chin.

He’s suddenly reminded of that Michael Jackson night at Orbits, not even a month ago.

 _“Wanna go outside a sec?”_ Harry had asked, and Louis had said yes because he had thought then, had thought up until about ten minutes ago, that he’d go anywhere Harry went. Anywhere he’d ever ask of him.

He feels like a traitor when he mumbles the news to Harry later that afternoon on the walk home from school.

It’s Harry that wraps his arms around Louis’ shoulders this time.

“It’s alright,” he says carefully, eyes wide and serious, brow furrowed hard. “I want you to be where you’ll be happy, in the end...” He trails off and they walk another block before he adds, “That’s the most important, I think.”

——

**April 1983**

_“Cause this is thriller, thriller night, and no one's gonna save you from the beast about to strike…”_

Harry rolls onto his back so that he’s staring upside down at Louis, who sits propped up against the headboard. “Do you think we’ll ever get tired of this album?”

Louis turns the page of his chem textbook. “Doubtful.”

“Do you think we’ll ever find an album we like better?”

For starters they’d have to actively listen to other music. So, “Doubtful.”

“Do you think you’ll find a newer, cuter boyfriend with better music taste than me?”

Louis raises just his eyes from his book. “Doubtful. But not completely out of the question.”

Harry reaches up and tries his best to smack Louis, falls short, batting at thin air instead. “Dick.”

Louis wiggles his eyebrows and jokingly thrusts his hips, making Harry’s head wobble back and forth where it’s resting on his stomach. “You called?”

“You’re disgusting,” Harry sniffs. The corners of his mouth just barely stay down. And because joke-thrusting amongst teenagers never stays just a joke, it only takes all of thirty seconds for Harry to swing himself around and crawl into Louis’ lap properly.

It’s a sunny April Saturday and Harry’s mom is out for the day visiting Gemma in the city, so, not that they’d _need_ an excuse to be honest, _but_ if they did, this would be it. Ten months and sixteen days and Louis is still just as sure, just as _positive_ that this is it for him. For them. College is still months off, and they’ll survive when it comes around. NIU and Purdue are only three hours apart.

And in the meantime, there’s something to be said for the knowledge that comes with being somebody's one and only. Louis knows as he slips his fingers past Harry’s waistband and brushes his lips over the hollow of his throat that he’s the only one to have ever done this. To have ever given him this. And it’s comforting, is the thing. The knowledge that this will never change. That they’ll move for school and begin their real lives, and that everything else in the whole entire world is entirely within its rights to get bad or get weird. To become different.

But this won’t. This will never be bad, will only get better, will always be there, and will always be his.

He curls his fingers just so. Watches as Harry seizes. Watches as he comes.

This will always be his.

——

**May 1983**

_“Where do you see yourself in ten years?”_

It’s Senior Prom. Or, rather, it’s the night of the Senior Prom. The dance is long over; everyone’s converged at Niall’s because his parents don’t care if they have beer, and they’re all too broke for a hotel room.

There’s probably ten of them inside— Niall and his date, Jade, some of Jade’s friends, Liam and his ‘friend’ come boyfriend, Andy. A few of Harry’s environmental friends. Louis’ friend, Stan— and they’re all blissfully drunk, blasting the same songs they’d already heard at the dance.

And then there’s Harry and Louis. Niall had shouted and laughed when they’d stood up to slip outside ( _“Be safe, fuckers!”)_ and Louis had tossed the bird over his shoulder with a smirk.

But they’re not fucking. At least not yet. They’re both down to their dress shirts, coats and ties both long gone, and Harry’s got his arm around Louis’ waist, slowly stroking the inner curve above his hip bone. Backs up against the shed, heads tilted together, clear bright moon high above. Not hot, but just warm enough.

“Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

Louis chuckles softly and then sighs, completely content. “With you.”

“We’ll be six years out of college,” Harry muses, lightly fingering the folds of Louis’ shirt. “Weird.”

“We could live in Japan,” Louis says lazily, for the sole purpose of drawing a grin from Harry’s lips. It’s his new ‘thing.’ Travel. International Travel. International Eco-Travel. Louis isn't too clear on what eco-travel actually entails, but he’s not too worried. He’s got a good four years to figure it out, he assumes.

“Gemma’s friend, Mike, studied in the Philippines for a semester,” Harry says. “That’d be so cool…” He smiles wistfully. “There was this whole thing on East Asian rainforests in National Geographic a few weeks back, too.”

Louis nods seriously. “Alright. East Asia it is then.” He pokes Harry’s thigh. “Better start saving your pennies, bud.”

Harry pulls Louis in by the collar, plants a wet one right on his cheek. “You too, mister.”

There’s three months until college.

It’ll be alright.

——

**August 1983**

On the last night of summer, they both completely lose it.

Louis is leaving at 8 AM the next day, Harry around noon, which means they have eight hours together until Halloween, they day they have solemnly vowed that they _will_ reunite for, everything else be damned.

They’ll write every week, they promise, and they’ll call every other night, if only just to say hello. And although they haven’t even left yet, haven’t even _tried_ , haven’t even _begun,_ Louis is already panicking. Harry cries and Louis cries and it’s only just college, but it feels like the end of the world.

They stay huddled in the back seat of Louis’ stepdad’s parked car, right on the top of that stain where this whole thing started only a little more than a year earlier. Louis clutches on tight to the collar of Harry’s shirt, pulling him in close and closer as the tears calm to sniffles.

“I love you,” he says, and he means every word, just as he always has.

“I love you too,” Harry promises.

That’ll be enough.

They’ll make it.

——

**September 1983**

The first few weeks of college are easy.

Well. It’s not _easy_ school-wise. Or dorm-wise. Or new friend-wise. But _Harry_ -wise? Yeah. That’s easy. (Louis can’t tell whether he’s surprised or not.) And that alone makes just about everything else easier in return.

Within the first three weeks of class, four of Louis’ five classes have made him cry, the smell of his roommate Aiden’s vodka-filled vomit has woken him up at least thrice weekly, and he doesn’t feel like he’s made any real or especially close connections.

But he writes Harry a letter nearly every day and gets one or two in return every week. They don’t call every other night like they’d planned, but every Sunday at 6:15 when most of his floor’s at dinner, Louis commandeers the floor phone and gets to spend fifteen, twenty, sometimes _thirty_ whole minutes wrapped up in Harry (who’s wrapped up in his own little world two hours away). (Which is a good thing. Harry having his own friends and his own clubs and his own experiences is a good thing.)

So, yeah. The first few weeks of college are easy.

Louis does not cross off the days until Halloween on his calendar.

——

**October 1983**

_“Fuck,_ I missed you.”

“I know, I know, I— _oh—”_

Their words are breathless and short, forced out between kisses and punctuated by moans low in their throats, by shivers running up their spines.

Harry pushes Louis flat on his back, holds his wrist above his head with one hand, the other tracing his jaw as he whispers, “I thought about you everyday.” He kisses his shoulder. “Every night.”

Halloween couldn’t have come soon enough.

——

They’re cuddled up in Harry’s twin bed, and there’s a sock on the door knob outside— apparently that’s an actual _thing—_ but they’re done and almost (not really) dressed, so really they could probably take it off and, in theory, let Harry’s poor, exiled roommate, Matty, back in.  Louis won’t be the one to suggest that, however. No way. Not when this is the first time he’s had his boy in his arms since August.

“Did you hear Niall and Jade broke up?” Harry asks, turning onto his side to stare up at Louis’ face.

Louis frowns. “No...Really? I… I guess I haven’t spoken to either of them lately. How’d you hear?”

Harry shrugs. “His mom told my mom, I guess.” Not having easy access to a home phone sucks.

Something odd settles in Louis’ stomach. “Did she say what happened?” He’d always thought Niall and Jade were such a good couple. He just— he really hadn’t seen this coming.

“Not really,” Harry shakes his head. “I think Niall probably just wanted some space, you know? To do his own thing for right now, or whatever. Be his own person.”

Louis blinks. “Oh.” He doesn’t say anything else.

“I love you,” Harry says.

“I love you too.”

——

“This is Alyssa, and Alice, and Eliza, and Elisa,” Harry points to each of the costumed girls in the semi circle around them. He turns and points to a group near the window. “Over there’s Xander and Eric. And there’s Oliver, and then the redhead is Ed. He’s awesome, Lou, you’ll—”

A hand clapping down on Louis’ shoulder startles Louis enough to cut Harry off.

“So. You must be _Louis?”_ A tall boy with fake blood dripping from the corners of his mouth and entirely too much gel in his hair grins down at them.

Harry makes the face Louis knows he always does when he’s outwardly annoyed and secretly pleased. “Lou, this is Nick. Nick, Lou,” he makes a grand sweeping gesture between them.

“Oh,” Louis smiles in recognition, offering Nick his hand. “Yeah, you’re one of the names I’ve definitely heard before. Though it’s usually paired with some sort of story about blacking out and puking,” Louis jokes, winding his arm around Harry’s waist. It’s not at all possessive. “Though,” he jerks his head at the masses surrounding them. “It’s entirely possible I’m thinking of someone else.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry asks indignantly, leaning into Louis’ touch.

Nick eyes the whole exchange from behind the rim of his solo cup, but he’s smiling. “So you’ve been introduced to all three hundred of Harry’s closest friends, then?” Nick laughs knowingly. It’s only vaguely patronizing. But in a good way? Louis is a bit drunk. He thinks he gets why Harry’s taken to Nick as well as he has. It’s always _Nick this_ and _Nick that_ (and most of the stories really do have to do with Nick blacking and puking, or eating too noisily or being a slob, so Louis isn’t all too concerned, quite honestly.) “Don’t worry,” Nick adds dryly, “I don’t think he’s ever gone an entire conversation thus far without somehow managing to bring you up.”

Louis smirks, patting Harry’s hip. “Yeah, he’s sort of disgusting like that.”

“How’s long distance treating _you_ , then?” Nick raises an eyebrow. “You know, Matty told me the other day that if he wakes up to Harry sadly getting himself off in the middle of the night _one more time—”_

Louis is not sure who’s redder, Harry or himself, but they’re saved a response when a lanky kid with shaggy brown hair bounds over. “I heard my name?” Matty asks, beer dangling precariously from one hand.

“Nothing,” Harry quickly reassures him. “Just talking about how much I’ve missed Louis. Speaking of. You need another drink, babe?” He grabs for Louis’ hand and makes a beeline for the kitchen, but not before Louis catches a glimpse of Matty’s face.

“You’re telling me?” he calls after them, pretending to vomit.

Louis beams.

——

Harry’s drunk. Louis is drunk. Everyone’s drunk. But Harry’s _drunk_ , and —

_“At first I was afraid, I was petrified.”_

Harry’s up on a table belting Gloria Gaynor, arms spread wide, head thrown back, and _this._ This is it. If there was ever a doubt in the world of what it was exactly that had Louis falling in love with this boy from Day 1, this is the explanation right here. Arms spread wide, head thrown back, singing— _shouting—_ along to “I Will Survive” as he struts back in forth on a table in the middle of the room, drunk and bright and alive in all his glory.

God. God, Louis loves him so much. Loves that he makes himself the center of attention in a way that lights up the room but never smothers it, that he’s always capable of turning up the heat in a way that makes you feel lucky to just _know_ someone like him.

Nick and a girl Louis is fairly sure he met earlier hop up onto the table beside Harry and then all three of them are in on it, dancing and singing, and Louis can just watch from several feet away, grinning like an idiot because Harry’s pink bowtie for his Michael Jackson costume à la the “Billie Jean” music video is loose and totally askew, and he looks absolutely beautiful.

Louis could never do that. Jump up on a table and give a drunken show to a packed party. It’s just not him, not who he is. But he’d never resent Harry for having that sort of courage. Especially not when he does what he always does in the end: he brings the show to Louis. Hops off the table mid-song and tumbles into Louis’ arms so that then it’s just them, Harry as the “Billie Jean” video and Louis in the red “Beat It” jacket, dancing close together, shouting the words between kisses, back in their bubble where they both know they belong.

——

“Fuck space,” Louis slurs. His arm is slung heavy over Harry’s shoulder as they slowly make their way back to his dorm.

“Space?” Harry replies, confused. Louis halfheartedly headbutts him.

Fuck Niall. Fuck Jade too.

“We don’t need space, do we, Hazza?”  
“We all need space, Lou,” he replies seriously. “It keeps us alive.”

Louis ignores him. “It does not! Niall and Jade were already going to different schools! How much more space can you possibly need?” he demands.

 _“Oh,”_ Harry says slowly. “That.”

“Yes. _That,”_ Louis says earnestly. “And fuck ‘being your own person!’” Harry doesn’t say anything for a moment and Louis frowns, tensing.

“...do you wanna be your own person?” Harry still doesn’t respond. “Hazza!”

“Huh? Hm?” Harry startles and straightens up, apparently close to falling asleep on his feet.

“I asked if you wanna be your own person?” Louis insists.

“Of course,” Harry mumbles.

Louis stomach drops. “You do?”

“With you, though...wanna be my own person with you…”

And with that, Harry bends over and pukes.

——

**November 1983**

“I’ll tell you more about it when we’re home for Thanksgiving, but basically the gist of it is we’re going to Mexico to build wells for impoverished communities. It’s from the 25th of December to January 3rd, and obviously we’ll fly there and back. We even get to spend two nights in Mexico City just doing whatever we want!” Harry says all of this in what sounds like one breath. When he finishes, the line crackles softly. “And, basically,” he pushes on, “the reason I’m telling you this— I mean, not that I wouldn’t have anyways— is because I talked to the project leader yesterday and they said you’re free to come if you’d like since it’s not, like, _just_ an NIU thing. Schools everywhere go through this company or something.”

Louis blinks and presses the hard receiver even closer to his ear. “Me?”

“Yeah! So, like, I wrote this essay thing about my future career goals and why I want to go, and I won a free spot!” Harry says animatedly, voice lilting in the away Louis knows means he’s grinning.

“Hazza, that’s great, babe—”

“Right! I was shocked. Nick proofread it and he said the writing was shit, but it had like, _passion._ So,” he giggles.

Louis frowns at that. “Fuck Nick,” he says firmly. “I’m sure it was great. You won after all, right?”

“Well, either way,” Harry concedes, and Louis can just picture him, sprawled out on the couch at the end of the hall where the telephone booth is, hands waving has he speaks. “The price is normally $500 per person—” Louis’ eyes bulge “—which I _know_ is a lot,” Harry rushes like he knows where Louis’ mind is at. “You know I wouldn’t have even been able to go if it weren’t free for me, but…” he trails off like he’s losing steam. “I just really want you to go, too...We always said our first adventure would be together, you know?”

Louis’ heart sinks. “Harry. I—” He can hear footsteps clambering up the stairs; the first wave of people are coming back from dinner. “Harry, you know I’d love to,” he says quietly, turning to face the back wall of the lounge.

“Yeah?” and Louis doesn’t get why Harry sounds _uncertain_ of all things, as if Louis wouldn’t kill to be able to do this.

“Of course! But...I, I mean…” Harry doesn’t say anything when he doesn’t continue. “I’ll try, okay? I’ll let you know over Thanksgiving…”

“It’ll be so much fun, Lou…” Louis fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“I gotta go,” Louis sighs. “Love you.”  
“Love you, too.”

He makes his way over to catch the tail end of dinner, but once he’s there everything tastes like paper in his mouth.

$500.

There’s no way.

——

**November 1983**

They’re down by the creek behind Louis’ house, and it’s freezing. Winter is here in full force; a thin layer of frost covers the Illinois ground.

They’re squished up on that same rock they always sit on— the one where Harry pushed Louis back and gave him his first BJ two weeks after they’d started messing around. Where they talked about Star Wars for three hours that one time and Harry forgot to go into work at the Cake Box. Where they nearly fought about college, nearly a year ago this month.

It’s a tighter fit now, and he’d claim that they’ve both gotten bigger, but it’d be a lie. It’s just Harry that’s grown. He’s somehow hit _another_ growth spurt in the last few months, and, of course, _“Matty and I lift weights a few nights a week now!”_

Louis? Well, to his own eyes, at least, he’s pretty much the same. Short and soft, the same as always.

Louis digs the heel of his scuffed up sneaker into the dirt. “My mom laughed when I asked if she could pitch in some money for the trip.”

He doesn’t work is the thing. Mark and his mom pay for school, luckily, and he still has enough cash saved up from mowing lawns and shoveling driveways last year. It’s a dollar a beer at most places, and it’s not like he spends on much else besides the odd busride up to see Harry for the weekend, so it’s never really been an issue.

“Oh,” Harry says. Louis tries not to prickle at the disappointment coloring his voice. Tries not to let himself dwell on the fact that Harry really doesn’t have a right to be disappointed— to make Louis feel _bad_ for making him disappointed— when at the end of the day, he still gets to fuck off on some grand adventure.

He doesn’t let himself bristle because he knows Harry just wants to be with him. Knows that if he had two extra pennies to rub together he’d be tossing them Louis’ way to help get him there. Knows that they’re both just antsy because they want this to work out, not because it’s a fight. They still don’t fight.

But.

That little _‘oh’_ still sort of niggles. “I wish I could go, Harry,” Louis reminds him, pulling his puffy green winter coat tight around himself. “You know I do. But. I—” he huffs quietly and doesn’t bother to finish the thought.

It’s silent a long time, and then, “We’re supposed to do this together.”

Louis doesn’t reply.

He feels Harry sort of tense up next to him, like he’s bracing himself.

“Do you not want me to go?” Harry asks. His voice is so hesitant, so unsure, that Louis’ neck actually cracks he turns it so fast.

 _“Hazza._ You’re going. Don’t be an idiot.” He sounds exasperated even to his own ears, but he can’t help it. “This...this is your thing, right?” He tugs Harry close into his side, buries his nose in his curls. “And it’s only eight days, you dork. I think we’ll both survive the separation.” That’s not the point, and they both know it, but Harry doesn’t call him out. “I’ll be there next time, okay?” he promises. “We’ve got our whole lives ahead of us.”

Comfortingly enough, when they traipse back up the bank and over to Louis’ house not much later, it truly does feel that way.

It’s fine. They don’t fight.

——

**December 1983**

Louis rocks forward, arms caging Harry’s head, hips locking together, feet entangling.

Harry leaves for the airport at 4:45 AM. It’s currently 11:00. One hour left of Louis’ 19th birthday. One hour left til Christmas Day. Five hours til Harry’s gone.

He leans down and his hair falls into his eyes; he can barely see, but he can feel. So he latches his mouth onto the smooth curve between Harry’s neck and shoulder and sucks. Bites. Works his teeth and tongue and lips over the skin as Harry’s breath stutters and his collar bone jolts.

They aren’t normally ones for hickies and bruises, but Louis can’t help himself tonight. Wants to leave a mark that Harry’ll feel. One that someone might catch a glimpse of, right below the collar of his shirt. Make them do a double take. Remind them that he, Louis, exists. Who he is for Harry. It’s over the top, but for just this once, he doesn’t care.

He pulls away, chest heaving. “Are you nervous?” he asks. Harry shivers where the hot breath runs over his wet skin.

“No.”

“You’re gonna have a great time, babe,” Louis whispers, dipping back down to play soft kisses across Harry’s jaw.

“I’ll miss you so much…”

Louis rolls his tongue over the hollow of Harry’s throat. “I’ll miss you too.”

——

**January 1984**

They only have one night at home together from the time Harry gets back until they both have to head off to school again. Louis wishes he were a strong enough person to be able to definitively state that he hadn’t considered going back late and just following Harry back to NIU for a few days instead. He doesn’t. But, God, does he consider it.

Harry’s glowing. He’s sunburned, and he’s come back with blisters all over his hands and a bag full of absolutely rank laundry, and he looks really and genuinely happy and so excited to share all his stories that Louis doesn’t mind sitting on the couch for the next two hours getting the complete play by play of the very adventure he’d missed out on. Like, Harry’s so adorably happy that he _really_ doesn’t mind it.

“I’m coming with next time,” Louis vows, pressing a wet, beaming kiss to Harry’s cheek.  

——

Four days into the semester, Harry officially declares his major in Spanish alongside the current one of Environmental Studies.

Four days into the semester, Louis makes a timid entrance into the tiny, oft-forgot study abroad office.

“So, uh, my boyfriend and I want to study in Mexico?”

——

**April 1984**

So Louis ends up planning the whole thing, which, it’s not that he thought coordinating a semester-long study abroad trip to Mexico City with two students of different majors attending different universities would be _easy_ , per se. He just, well, didn’t quite understand just how large of an undertaking it would end up being.

It’s hours in study abroad office pouring over pamphlets and days spent sending letter after letter (always another letter. There’s always something he’s forgotten) to Harry explaining to him what he’s done so far, what he’s come up with, what questions he needs to ask his counselor, what info he needs to get from NIU’s study abroad office. It’s study breaks spent pouring over the pre-reqs for graduation in his own Civil Engineering degree. (Can he make it? What electives can he do while he’s gone? Which classes have to be taken in what order to graduate?) And, more than anything else, it’s confidently reassuring Harry each and every Sunday at 6:15 PM that this is real and it’s going to happen and it’s going to be incredible and they’re going _together._

It’s April of their freshman year before they finally hear back from all three: Purdue, NIU, and la Universidad de México. _(“You get the letter?” “Fuck off, did_ you _get the letter?” “Of, course I got the letter—” “Oh, my God, Haz—” “I know, I—”)_  It’s a yes from all three somehow, and it feels like a legitimate _weight_ off Louis’ shoulders when he gets the letter in the mail. Like, he actually just flops back on his bed and has to slap his hands over his eyes a few times to stop from grinning so hard.

They’re going to Mexico. He and Harry. Together. And they’ll be together all summer long, and then from September until December. He’s almost...he doesn’t cry or anything like that, but he sort of wants to, has a heavy, thudding pressure in his throat.

And it’s not even like the long distance has been unendurable this past year. They write letters, and they talk on the phone each week, and Harry got to come up to Purdue back in February for a combined Valentine’s/belated birthday celebration. They’re not like Niall and Jade, who broke up less than two months into the semester. And they _definitely_ aren’t like Aiden, who Louis assumes is currently at his side-chick’s dorm, “real” girlfriend three hours away and none the wiser. They’re HarryandLouis, and they’ve made it the past year, and it’s been okay.

He has to a muffle a scream of relief into his pillow all the same.

——

(Two meetings into the whole ordeal, Louis’ Civil Engineering advisor lays down the law: in order to spend the entire fall semester abroad, effectively only taking 9 credit hours of electives, Louis will have to spend either one summer making up for lost time or two semesters paying extra fees to succeed the 18 credit hour/semester limit.

It’s an easy decision.

He doesn’t think about it again.)

——

**June 1984**

It’s easy falling back into the same old suburban routine as before.

Everyone’s back home for the summer. Harry takes shifts at the Cake Box again, and Niall and Jade are “just having fun,” and Louis spends most of his time not spent babysitting his sisters and mowing lawns dicking around at Liam’s house a few blocks over. Everyone stays up late and sleeps in even later, and it’s sort of like the past year never even happened. Like, they all made some good friends back at school, sure, but, for Louis at least, there’s something different about being back home. Back with the people who know you the best.

For Harry, on the other hand, the nostalgia (or maybe comfort?) factor seems to wear off after about a week. Which is honestly okay. It just means more late night adventures and distract-me-I’m-so-bored blow jobs. It’s not even, like, an astounding departure from Harry’s _normal_ personality. He’s always been the first to get restless at a party and the first to retreat, whether it be to his own little world or some far off extension of it.

They still hang out every single day, just as they did last summer, and just as they did the summer before. There’s less _Thriller_ , which in itself isn’t odd— Louis doesn’t even notice it until “Human Nature” comes on the radio one afternoon and he realizes they haven’t pulled out the cassette once all summer, and it sort of dawns on him a day or two later that nothing else has come along to take its place.

The only thing even comparable is that stupid Prince album Harry plays from time to time. It’s not constant and it’s not even really relevant. It’s just weird that Louis had never even _heard_ these songs before, right? It’s just sort of strange that Harry can quietly sing along to every track while he reads his Nat Geo’s and Louis dozes off next to him.

He mentions it to Liam one day, in not so many words.

“What?” is all Liam replies, side-eyeing him from the couch as they binge watch _Brady Bunch._ “You’re...are you really asking me if it’s weird that Harry knows all the words to an album you’ve never heard before?”

Louis throws a pillow at him and recognizes it as a lost cause.

——

**August 1984**

Louis spoons another helping of potatoes onto his plate, rambling as he talks. “So, next summer I think I’ll have to stay on campus for at least the May-July session of classes in order to take Physics 212 since that’s a Fall-Only class, but—”

“Excuse me?” Mark cuts across him, fork pausing mid-air.

“Next summer,” Louis repeats casually, reaching for the salt. “I might have to do the July-August session, too, but I’m thinking I’ll just stretch it and do 21 credits that fall instead because—”

His mother holds up a hand. “Wait, wait, wait,” she waves it back and forth. “Where’s this all coming from?”

Louis pauses, looking back and forth between his parents’ bewildered faces. “Since I’ll be abroad this fall,” he explains slowly, confused as to where the confusion lies, “I have to make up for the lost Engineering hours. We’ve been over this?”

Jay and Mark exchange a loaded look; the younger girls plow on chattering amongst themselves about whatever show had been on earlier. Neither parent so much as blinks when a small fight breaks out when Daisy accidentally elbows Fizzy. Louis stays stock still, unsure of what’s going on, a small knot forming in his stomach all the same.

“No,” Mark says shortly. “We have _not_ been over this.”

——

It’s 11:30 PM when Louis shows up at Harry’s house unannounced. He just— he couldn’t call beforehand. He had to get out of there, had to get out of that living room before round twelve of yelling and pleading and all sorts of crying started. He hadn’t even grabbed his shoes before he left, just hopped on his bike in his shorts and thin t-shirt. Bolted before he could lose it all over again.

But now that he’s here, he’s stuck in the driveway because— so much for not losing it again— he’s a complete mess, snotty and teary, and holy fucking shit. The lights are all off, and he doesn’t want to ring the bell, doesn’t want to risk Anne or Gemma answering, having to face them when he’s— _fuck_. He’s fucked up so badly.

So he ditches his bike in the grass and sneaks around to the back, tries his best to silence his hiccuping sniffles, and pushes open the back door that’s always been unlocked ever since Louis has known Harry. Once he’s inside, he carefully shuts the screen door, and — his throat tightens. He stands there all alone in the dark kitchen, the sound of the air-con unit in the living room buzzing away as always.

It takes him a few minutes to muster up his courage, but he finally makes his way up the stairs, carefully skips over the third step that always creeks, the one that nearly got them caught the first time Harry’d tried to sneak him in, and he’s not even— he’s not even doing anything _wrong_ this time, Anne wouldn’t even care if she knew he was here; he just can’t face anyone. Doesn’t even want to face Harry.

The light’s still on under the crack in the door of Harry’s room when Louis rounds the corner. He pushes the door open softly, head hung low.

“Lou?” Harry says, surprised. It’s all it takes to set him off again

The tears come slow at that point, resigned and heavy. Harry’s off the bed in a heartbeat. “They aren’t gonna let me go,” Louis whispers, rooted to the spot.

“What?” Harry asks, eyes narrowed in utter confusion. “Who? I— Lou? What’s going on?”

“My parents say I can’t go to Mexico.”

Harry’s mouth falls open. “Wh—”

“They didn’t realize I’d have to take summer classes and double up on credits,” Louis forces out, chest tightening. “They didn’t— they didn’t know. I… I don’t know. I don’t know how I didn’t tell them— I must have! But— they—” Harry wraps his arms around his shoulders, pulls him into chest without a word. “They don’t want to pay for the stuff for abroad, and then the housing for the summer, and the fees for the credits, and _fuck,”_ he sobs. _“Fuck!_ I— _fuck!”_

It feels like he’s been crying for ages when Harry finally whispers, “Are you sure?”

A choked nod is all he can give.

——

“I’m not gonna go.”

“Harry, you’re fucking going.”

“I’m _not_ going without you, Lou.”

“ _Yes_ , you fucking are.”

To his credit, Harry keeps the protests up fairly steadily for the first forty-eight hours. They both know what he wants. They both know what he’s going to do.

It doesn’t make the reality of it any less heartbreaking.

——

The next two weeks pass in blurry slow motion, every second drawing closer to the truth: if long distance from NIU to Purdue had been horrible, but manageable, long distance from the US to Mexico...

They both sigh and say it is what it is. They try not to make it out as worse than it’s already going to be. They actively fight not to think too hard about it.

Louis thinks about it. He thinks about it a lot.

(International mail doesn’t seem especially promising. International phone calls sound like pricey headaches. International long distance is terrifying.)

But he doesn’t say it out loud. He won’t. He can’t. Because he knows that Harry’s scared right now— nervous to be alone in a foreign country for months at a time, nervous to leave his boyfriend behind, nervous, nervous, nervous— but he knows that this is what Harry wants. Knows that he can’t hold him back, can’t ask him to say.

The days slip by. Louis holds on.

——

**August 1984. The night before Harry leaves.**

Louis presses his face into the crook of Harry’s neck and winds his legs between the other boy's as closely as he can. They haven’t played this game in a while, but he dusts it off all the same, just like the worn-out _Thriller_ tape he’d stashed in one of Harry’s bags. “So. Mr. Big Adventure Man,” he teases gently, presses a kiss to the hot skin below his lips. “Where do you see yourself in ten years?” It comes out as a whisper. He’s clutching on to the present like the life vest it is. There’s nothing else he can do.

Harry smiles, and even in the dark Louis can tell it’s nervous. Nervous, nervous, nervous.

And excited.

“Who knows,” he half-laughs. Wiggles his toes against Louis’ ankle. “It's kinda great, isn’t it?”

Louis’ breath stills, but he doesn’t say a word.

——

 **Friday 8/19, 8/7 central. The MTV Exclusive, World Premiere of Michael Jackson’s NEW short film,** **_Thriller!_ **

The fucking advert comes on so often in the days leading up to it, Louis can’t count the number of times he has to change the channel.

The night that Harry’s set to leave, Michael Jackson’s newest video is premiering on MTV. Because of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? Isn’t that the purpose of the universe these days? To relentlessly mock and tear apart their relationship? Make every last needle do its worst?

So they make a promise. Neither of them will watch the new video until they’re back together again. They’ll do whatever it takes. Change the channel, leave the room, cover their eyes. Whatever.

Louis does not shed one single tear from the moment he kisses Harry goodbye in the driveway of the Style’s house at 8:27 AM until hours later that evening at 7:00 PM.

7:01 finds him lying on his back in his bedroom upstairs, trying his best to block out the faint traces of what sounds like a musical horror movie on the TV below, sobbing.

——

**September 1984.**

**Phone Call #1:**

“Hello?”

“Hello?”

 _“Hello?_ Can you hear me?”

The line’s terrible, absolutely _terrible_ , crackly and staticky, and Louis can definitely hear Harry, but he’s not sure Harry can hear him, and this is the first time he’s heard his boyfriend’s voice in almost three weeks, holy _shit._

He grips the phone as tight as he can, as if cutting of all circulation in his ear will help him hear better. “Babe? Harry? Can you hear me?”

“Louis?”

Relief rushes through him. “Hey!’ he gushes, leaning forward in excitement. “How are you? Tell me everything!” _Hey. How has EVERYTHING been? Tell me literally EVERYTHING that’s happened! I want to know it all. Do you miss me as much a I miss you?_ That’s what he wants to say. But time is money, and international calls from Mexico are a whole fucking lot of money.

“It’s incredible,” Harry giggles, obviously just as giddy as he is. “Fuck, I wrote you a letter. I hope it gets there.” He’s speaking very quickly, obviously trying to get as much in in as little time as possible. “The first week or so was really hard...I’m literally the only kid from NIU,” he explains. “Definitely not the same atmosphere as the mission trip last Christmas.”

Louis’ heart twinges, overflowing with so many emotions it’s hard to tell which is which and why they’re there and what they all mean. “Yeah, I can imagine. You okay now? How’s the language going?”

Harry laughs again, and God. Louis can picture him, but it’s just not the same. It’s not at all the same. “It was hard. I think that was the worst part. It’s one thing to practice in my Spanish classes back home, but everyone talks so fast here!” he whines. “But it’s definitely getting better. I have a conversation partner, Martín, from this one conversation group I joined, so he’s been helping a lot.”

“Ooh,” Louis teases automatically. “Is he cute?”

 _Fuck,_ he can literally _hear_ Harry rolling his eyes. “Yeah. Not as cute as you though…”

“Aww,” Louis laughs. “Loser!”

“You haven’t watched _Thriller_ have you?”

 _“No_ , you dick. But everyone talks about it all the time, so I pretty much know what happens...it better be worth the wait,” he complains. He tries to speed up, aware that it’s probably already been almost two minutes, but it’s like his brain’s gone Harry-fuzzy. He’d had this whole list of questions to ask and stories to tell and he can’t think of _any_ of them for the life of him. He settles for, “Eaten anything that’s made you sick yet?”

Harry scoffs. “Like three times.”

“Oh, God…”

“It’s alright,” Harry says. “It’s worth it… like, it sucks, you know? Being away? But… fuck, I wish you were here, Lou. It’s incredible.”

“I know, babe. I wish I were too…”

“I think I’d better go, though… God, I hate how fucking expensive this is. I hope my letter gets there soon. Did you write me?”

“Only like every day,” Louis says seriously. “So. Three Sundays from now? Same time?”

“Same time,” Harry promises. “If something comes up and I don’t call, plan for that Monday, I guess?”

“Okay, babe… I love you. I miss you so, so, so much.”

“Love you, too, Lou...Miss you…”

And just like that, 3:45 seconds in, it’s over.

Life goes on.

——

**October 1984**

**Phone Call #2**

Although he’d never have thought it in a million years, Louis has to admit: it’s rather hard to miss someone in a place they’ve never existed.

Purdue is Purdue and Harry was never _here_ , never inherently part of Louis’ life here. It’s odd, of course, going to the first wave of dinner with the rest of his friends around six on Sunday nights now, and it sort of throws him when he realizes he’ll be spending Halloween on campus, rather than at NIU like the year before, but other than that, not much has really changed all in all.

It’s the middle of October before he knows it, finally, _finally_ time for Harry’s second phone call. It's an odd sort of feeling, realizing it’s really not so hard to deal with anymore. The bitterness of not being able to go has long since faded, and December will be here before they know it, Louis thinks, and all of the crying and carrying on from earlier seems so unnecessary at this point.

All the same, he’s ready and waiting in the lounge long before the appointed hour, _just in case_.

He picks up on the first ring.

“Hello?” he says loudly and clearly, already anticipating the same poor connection as before.

Harry’s voice comes through on the first try. “Lou?”

“Hazza!” he greets, already grinning. “Babe! How’s it going? Fuck, I’ve missed you.”

“Hey, Lou,” Harry says. The connection makes his voice sound a little weird. Deeper, somehow even slower than normal, if possible. “I’ve missed you too.”

He doesn’t sound quite as energetic as last time, and Louis immediately pounces, concerned. “What’s up? You okay?”

Harry’s quiet for such a long time that Louis’ just starting to think the line dropped when he finally says, “So, I think I’m actually staying until the end of the year.”

“...what?”

“I’m sorry. I know that’s such a weird thing to randomly decide,” he continues, voice slowly rising in pitch. “I— I don’t know, I guess I’ve just been talking it over a lot with my friends, and like. Four months is so short, you know? To like...really get to the know the culture and get comfortable with the language. Like. I mean, this is my career right? Spanish is my major?”

Louis sits unmoving, speechless. “...what?”

“And like, I talked to my advisor. Or rather, my advisor here talked to them, I guess, and they said it’d be fine. Like class-wise. I’d knock a lot of my Spanish classes for NIU out of the way, you know? So it’d be pretty much the same. And. I don’t know. I just...I love it here, you know?” He’s speaking quickly now, probably the fastest Louis has ever heard him speak in his entire life. “And who knows when I’ll get a chance to come back, Lou? Like. There’s so much I haven’t done, and, like, places I haven’t seen, or whatever, and Martín was saying he can talk to one of his dad’s friends maybe to see about doing an internship next semester at this conservation NGO that he knows about.”

Martín. It takes him a moment to place the name, but then he remembers: Harry’s conversation partner, or whatever. An irrational, uneasy feeling starts crawling its way up his chest, but he shoves it back down, tries to focus on the problem on hand. “You’re...you’re staying?” he says tonelessly, trying to understand.

Harry’s quiet again. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. I’ll be back at end of April, beginning of May.”

All the blood is rushing to his feet. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Harry. I—”

“I love you, Lou,” he cuts him off. “I love you so much. I just— Louis, I have to do this. You get that, right?”

His mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton. “Ye—yeah… I. Yeah. I love you too,” he manages.

“I gotta go,” Harry says, voice thick. “I’m sorry, Lou...I love you. I miss you! Please don’t think I don’t miss you!”

“I miss you too,” he replies automatically.

“I wrote you a letter trying to explain it all a bit better...I hope you get it,” Harry adds. “Fuck. I… I love you. Talk again in three Sundays?”

“Yeah.” Louis is numb. Numb. “I love you, Harry. I—”

“Bye. Miss you.”

“Miss you too.”

The call ends. 2:58 seconds.

——

**November 1984**

**Phone Call #3**

Every time Louis tries to fathom, if only to himself, the whole range of emotions he flies through over the next month, he crumbles in on himself.

It’s useless.

He’s shocked. Then angry. Then confused. Then determined. He’ll convince Harry to come home during their next phone call; he’ll show him that _this_ is where he’s supposed to be. Home. With Louis. Or, at least, a measly two hours away.

He won’t even see him for his birthday. Either of their birthdays.

And if he thought it was difficult to miss someone who’d never been in the space, he was wrong. Just plain fucking wrong. Because now, armed with the knowledge that he won’t see his boy, _the love of his life,_ for another six months...he’s wrecked. Just absolutely fucking wrecked.

And there’s nothing he can even do about it.

He knows he shouldn’t be angry. He knows Harry deserves to live out his dreams, that he needs to do what’s best for his future, that he’s free to do whatever he wants.

But, God, if it doesn’t fucking hurt.

So on the third Sunday, the day they’re finally supposed to talk, he’s ready. He’s going to make this case. He’s going to bring his boy home.

Just as always, Louis picks up on the first ring.

 _“Harry,”_ he breathes, the level of desperation already clouding his voice shocking even himself.

It’s a moment before Harry responds. “Hey.”

“Babe— I— I got your letter. Yesterday. I got it. I read it,” he says quickly, needing to get in every last word he can. “And I get it, Hazza, I swear, but— please. If you come home now, I’ll do whatever. I’ll work all semester, all summer. Over time. Four jobs if I have too! And I’ll go with you wherever you want to go next time! I swear! Please— I—”

“Lou,” Harry cuts him off. “I—” his voice is strangled, and Louis prays, _prays_ this means he regrets what he’d said before, that he’s changed his mind. “I don’t even— _fuck._ I— I don’t even know how to say this, but. I—”

It’s like the wind is knocked out of him.“No,” he whispers immediately, feeling like he’s about ten seconds from going under. “Harry. Don’t. Whatever it is. Just—”

“I think...at least while I’m gone…” He pauses. The line crackles. “I think we should see other people while I’m gone, Lou.”

Louis doesn’t even know what he ends up saying in response.

It’s over in 1 minute and 39 seconds.

 

——

 **December 24th— Capricorn** **February 1st— Aquarius**

 **Strengths:** self-controlled,                                                  **Strengths:**  original,

good managers                                                                   humanitarian

 

 **Weaknesses:**   unforgiving,                                                  **Weaknesses:** uncompromising,

distrusting                                                                          independent, aloof

 

 **** **Capricorn likes:** tradition,                                                 **Aquarius likes:**  new experiences,                                                             

persistence                                                                        intellectual conversation

 

 **Capricorn dislikes:** broken promises,                                **Aquarius dislikes:** being lonely,

dramatics                                                                          limitations 

 

——

**November 1984. Mexico.**

The day of the Phone Call, Harry’s in some tiny beach town one of Martín’s friend's parents owns a hostel in, or something, and he literally spent the whole day on the beach drinking rum and playing volleyball and laughing and grinning and generally blocking out any reminder of the call he had coming up at 6 PM. And when the hour comes, he shrugs Martín off, mumbles he’s supposed to call Louis. He gets a sympathetic nod in return.

Everyone in their little group, a solid mixture of gringos and Mexican college kids, knows what’s coming. They’ve all put their two cents into his seemingly endless relationship woes. _You’re young. All high school relationships come to an end, man. I could never do it. Break ups aren’t permanent, you know? You’re obviously unhappy. You need to live in the moment. Just tell him how you’re feeling. Just have some fucking fun._

When he’s finally in the hotel, crammed into the tiny phone booth, all he can do is stare at the faded, paper sign glaring down at him from the wall.

**< 1 min = 11.82USD Mex → EEUU**

He has less than a minute to break his boyfriend’s heart, and it’s going to cost him twelve bucks to do it.

There’s sand under his fingernails as he dials the number.

Harry doesn’t fall asleep the entire night after the fact. Everyone else goes off to the beach bars, ready for another night of drinking and dancing and wading in the ocean. Harry stays back at the hostel, lays in bed, and tries not to lose his goddamn mind. He hadn’t been sleeping well for the last few nights prior, either. Not from the time his uneasy inkling had grown into a final, reluctant decision. But it’s worse the night after. It’s worse because he fucked up.

The thing is, he just knows, just _knows_ that Louis doesn’t understand. _Knows_ that he’s alone and confused. _Knows_ that he’s probably crying and hurt and— shit. He just didn’t know what else to do! It was as if he’d had been trapped in his own emotions for the past few weeks, damned if he does, damned if he didn’t, and he’d stressed and panicked and tried to work out _exactly_ what he was going to say during the call; he did, he really, really did. And he tried to make himself believe that he didn’t want this, that he was fine in long distance after long distance, that he was fine with only dating one person forever and always, that he didn’t listen when everyone around him made knowing comments, when Martín teased him about how young they both were. He tried. And it didn’t change a damn thing.

So he knew in the end that he he had to make the call. It was only fair, and he owed Louis that, more than anything else. But when the moment came— when he heard Louis’ voice crack, heard his gasps, and the stunned silence that’d followed... It still makes him sick to think about.

He thinks about it quite a lot.

And he just doesn’t know what to do at this point. _Fuck,_ had he fucked the whole thing up. Didn’t get in a word of explanation, didn’t try to make him understand that he was doing this for _them,_ to make them stronger, to see if they truly wanted this in the long run.

So he does the only the other thing he can at this current time and place.

He writes.

——

**November 1984**

_Dear Louis,_

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Lou. I hate phone calls. I’m sorry I had to go so quickly. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to explain. Please let me explain._ _Please don’t hate me._ _I love you so much, Lou. Please believe that._

 _I’m 19. You’re 19. About to turn 20, I guess. But still. We’re young. We say we want to spend forever together, right? We’ve literally always said that._ _I still believe that, Louis._ _I do. I promise. But how can we know that this is what we want if we don’t try anything else in the meantime?_

_You need to experience the world, too, babe. I want you too. I want to punch something at the thought of someone else touching you. But I know that’s not fair. I know you need to do it. I won’t think any less of you. I promise._

_We’ll sort it all out when I get back. This isn’t even in a relationship in the meantime! Talking once a month. A few letters. I hate it, Louis. I miss you. But we both need to live our lives in the meantime._

_I still see myself with you in ten years. I swear._

_Love, Harry._

——

**November 1984**

_Dear Harry,_

_I’ve started and thrown away so many drafts of this letter I don’t even know where to begin._

_I’m trying to understand. I’m trying to accept that this is what you want. I don’t think I do, but I’m trying. I don’t_ _want_ _to be with anyone else. I really don’t._

_I tried. Last night I went to a party with some of my friends (They all know what happened. Kind of hard to hide Sunday night crying.) They tried to hook me up with someone, you know. And I tried. If only so I could say fuck you to you in this letter._

_Fuck you._

_I hated it. I literally only kissed the guy. We sort of made out. I hope you’re happy to hear that. I hope that’s the sort of ‘life experience’ that you’re getting as well._

_Just tell me one thing: is it Martín?_

_Love, Louis_

——

**November 1984**

_Dear Harry,_

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry for that last letter. I’m trying not to be so angry. I don’t know if I can._

_I got your letter the other day. I ripped it up, just so you know. And then I taped it back together. It still sucked the second time around._

_If this is what you want, there’s nothing I can do to stop you either way._

_I’ll still be here when you get back._

_Love, Louis_

_P.S. I watched Thriller last night. It was shit._

——

**December 1984**

_Dear Louis,_

_Happy Birthday. I’m going to call you tomorrow, same as always, but I don’t know if you’ll pick up this time. I hope you do. But I’m saying Happy Birthday now just in case I don’t get a chance later._

_I went to the beach this past weekend. I mean, I usually try to go to a beach or some cool place every weekend since I don’t have class on Fridays and not until late on Mondays. I wished you were there._

_I wish you were here._

_Thank you for trying to understand. I feel like such a dick all the time. It’s like, I miss you so much. But I’m afraid if we don’t do this, we’ll both wake up in twenty years and wish we had. Wish we’d known what else was out there. Just in case, I guess._

_I know how shitty that sounds._

_I love you._

_Love, Harry._

——

It wasn’t Martín. Not initially. Harry swears to God it wasn’t. That wasn’t why he did what he did to Louis. It wasn’t about just fucking off with his conversation partner, having a nice little study abroad boyfriend for a few months. It _wasn’t._ There wasn’t anyone in particular and he didn’t have any plans in mind. It wasn’t Martín.

Until it was.

Harry’s heart hurts.

He wishes he’d never gone to Mexico at all.

——

**January 14th, 1985**

 

They write a few more letters back and forth. The last time they speak on the phone is January. December’s call was choked promises that it wasn’t the end, forced reassurances that it was going to be okay.

Harry really and truly had thought it was all going to be okay.

They don’t fight, is the thing. Even towards the end, they don’t fight. Not really, anyways.

January’s phone call starts off as best as it can.

“Hey,” Harry says. “How was Christmas? How was your birthday?”

  
“Alright,” Louis says, and Harry swallows hard, guilt filling him up because Louis sounds so _normal_ now. He doesn’t sound torn up, doesn’t sound angry. He sounds like the Louis he’s always known. “Niall and Liam threw me a party on New Year’s to celebrate. It was pretty awesome,” he says casually. “What’d you do for the holidays?”

“Martín’s family actually hosted me,” Harry replies, fiddling with the phone cord. “It was really sweet of them.”

There’s a beat of silence. “That’s great.” And Louis still doesn’t sound angry. “Any plans for this month? Good stories?”

“Um…” he fidgets, wracking his brain. “Not really. I always forget during these calls,” he laughs, and it’s barely even awkward.

“God, I know…”

“Martín was saying we should take a roadtrip for my birthday, though. So, I guess that’ll probably be the next big thing. Stuff’s sort of slowed down now, I guess. Most of the gringo’s I knew left at the semester, so it’s all new people, but—”

“Are you two together, then?” Louis cuts him off. Harry’s breath catches. He _still_ doesn’t sound angry.

“I,” he starts. Stops. The thing is, he doesn’t even know what to say. _Are_ they together? He’s not an idiot and he’s not naive. He knows they have _something_ going on. Maybe they aren’t _together_ , but— Flashes from the weekend, drunk downtown, kissing in the taxi on the way home flood his mind. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly. “Sort of, I guess.”

Louis’ response is immediate. Decisive. “Okay,” he says. “I figured.”

The call ends quickly after that.

They don’t fight.

They never fight.

\----

**Summer 1985**

No one else seems to get it.

“He dumped you?” Niall asks, fork literally hanging in midair in front of his mouth. _“What?_ When!”

“Like a month into Mexico,” Louis laughs. It’s only vaguely bitter.

Liam’s literally staring at him, dumbstruck. “What the fuck?”

Louis shrugs. What the fuck indeed. “He said the distance was driving him crazy and he wanted to be single or whatever for a while. Make sure that we were really as endgame as we thought.” Niall stares at him as if he’s crazy. Louis can’t say he blames him. He doesn’t think _anyone_ (Not even himself. Especially not himself.) saw this coming. “And I was like, okay, yeah. I mean...what could I do, you know? And he somehow seemed just as torn up about it as I was in all the letters he wrote me, so I figured he really _was_ just trying live life on his own. Make sure he could stand his own ground.” He sighs. “I don’t fucking know.”

“And?” Niall prods.

Louis pushes one of his fries around his plate with the tip of his finger. “He’s dating some Mexican guy he met there, I guess. Martín.”

Niall and Liam exchange utterly bewildered looks. “But Harry’s back now, right? Like. Here?”

Louis shrugs noncommittally. “Yep.”

“And he’s still dating this guy?” Liam confirms.

“As far as I know. That’s what he told me the other day, at least.”

Niall makes an outraged noise. “What the fuck? Is he planning on going _back?”_

Louis sighs again. “I have honestly no idea.” He doesn’t include the unspoken thought on everyone’s mind:

It turns out Harry’s perfectly willing to continue with long distance. Just not with Louis.

——

The transitionary period after a break up, Louis thinks, is nearly as bad as the moment of the break up itself. It’s not the same stabbing, blind-sided pain, of course. And it’s not even the dull, thudding ache of the weeks following the initial blow.

It’s getting to the point where you think you’re going to be fine on your own, only for the person that broke your heart to come waltzing back in as if it’s all okay.

It’s pretending you agree, if only to save the little face you have left.

It’s realizing that it _is_ okay, that you somehow _can_ manage to be ‘just friends,’ beyond all conceivable odds, because your foundation of friendship is just _that_ strong. That even after months of separation and heartbreak and moving on, when you’re together, you’re still the same people you were before. That everything feels exactly the same.

And it’s laying in bed late at night, wondering why on Earth someone would want to give that sort of compatibility up.

——

**Fall 1985**

So that’s it. Louis goes back to Purdue in the fall. Harry goes back to NIU. They don’t call anymore. They don’t write. Why would they?

Sometime in September a poster goes up on the Upcoming Events board in the lobby of Louis’ dorm.

**Michael Jackson featuring the Jacksons: THE VICTORY TOUR**

**Chicago: December 12th, 1985— Soldier Field**

**Tickets: advanced lottery**

**SELLING FAST! BUY NOW!**

He stares at it for a moment, a surge of emotions suddenly bubbling up in his stomach so quickly, so strongly, that he actually has to swallow and shake himself. He doesn’t let himself think as he races up the stairs to his room.

_Hazza!_

_I just saw a poster— MJ’s finally coming to Chicago for a show! December 12th at Soldier Field. It said it was a ticket lottery? Wanna go?? Let me know ASAP. Try calling and seeing if anyone picks up— just tell them to let Louis T know that Harry says yes or no. IF YOU DON’T SAY YES I’M DRIVING TO NIU TO GET YOU MYSELF._

_Louis_

He sends the letter off before he can think twice.

——

Harry doesn’t call.

A letter comes in the mail a week or so later.

_Lou,_

_I can’t go...I’ll be in Mexico for December...I’ll be home for Thanksgiving though? Talk to you then??_

_Harry_

Louis reads the letter twice. Three times. One line. Twenty two words. That’s all it says.

——

**1987\. Two** **Years Later.**

There’s a stack of letters in a box that Harry never opens under the bed in the apartment he regrets he moving into with a man he knows he shouldn’t be with.

There’s twenty seven of them in total, never more than a few lines long, mostly a mess of scribbles and scratches. He hates that he knows the total, and he hates that he’s never even had to count them, and he hates that it’s just a running tally, and he hates that the tally won’t ever stop growing. He hates that he has no one to blame for his own sadness, and he hates that poor Martín will soon be left in the same wake of destruction that it appears Harry has a natural talent for.

He hates.

He hates himself.

Because he spent most of his last years of college running away from the bull shit he created and believing his own excuses and smiling and laughing and kissing a person who does not deserve the chaos that is Harry Styles. Because he graduated a semester early, took the first job he can find in Mexico City, and bolted for what he claims will be for once and for good.

Eight months into a year long lease, all he wants is for someone to explain to him how it is that the adventures have stopped coming and the experiences have stopped being new. He wants to be shaken awake.

He wants to be nineteen again.

 

~~_Louis,_ ~~

~~_I’m_ ~~

 

~~_Louis,_ ~~

~~_I miss you_ ~~

 

~~_Louis,_ ~~

~~_I’m sorry_ ~~

 

~~_Louis,_ ~~

~~_I don’t know what to do_ ~~

 

There’s twenty seven letters in a box that Harry leaves behind in the apartment he is moving out of, leaving behind the man who had to have known this day would come.

“Discúlpame,” he apologizes softly, kisses Martín on the cheek just once when the taxi arrives.

They stop at the post office on the way to the airport.

Letter number twenty eight.

 

_Louis,_

_I messed up._

——

**December 1987**

“So, uh, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but...Harry’s back in town, I guess,” Niall says awkwardly.

Louis blinks, staring straight at the wall where the phone base hangs. “Um,” he replies, fingers loose around the receiver.

“Lou,” Niall says gently. “He’s...I think he’s, like, back for good.”

“Okay.” What else is he supposed to say? “Thanks for the heads up, I guess.”

He’s fine when he gets off the phone. It’s been two years. He’s over it.

When he goes to grab the mail a few minutes later, all there is is a collection of junk mags and a solitary letter with a return address in Mexico City.

It’s the first one in two years.

——

**January 1987**

“Hey. _Ghostbusters_ is on at eight on Friday. Pizza and beer at my place. You in?”

Louis stands barefoot on his kitchen floor, phone receiver cold against his ear. He stares down at his toes and twists the curl phone cord twice around his index finger. “Not to be weird, but—”

“Oh, for _fuck’s sake._ _Yes_ , Harry is going to be there. Are you kidding me?” Liam moans.

Louis grimaces. “I don’t know! I just...I just don’t really wanna see him, you know?” He licks his lips. “It’ll be weird.”

“It was never weird before, dude.”

“Yeah, but—” _that was two summers ago when I was somehow still convinced we’d get back together and now he’s single and been back in the area for weeks, and he hasn’t said a word to me other than a cryptic letter with a Mexican mailing address that just said, ‘I messed up.’_ “It’s different now.”

“Louis, come on. Isn’t time supposed to heal all wounds or some shit?”

His teeth sink into the constantly bitten corner of his lip. “I’ll think about it. I’ll let you know, okay?”

“Fuck you,” Liam says, but Louis knows he’s not actually mad.

“Fuck you too, man. Talk to you later.”

——

He forces himself to go on Friday, if only to prove to himself that he’s really and truly moved on.

And it’s normal. Of course it is. It’s completely normal.

Harry sits next to Louis on the couch, a normal distance apart for two platonic friends, for two people that have known each other for years, for two people whose lives have been intertwined since they were kids.

Intertwined.

What a joke.

Harry asks him about his new job downtown, and he’s actually interested in the boring details of what a Civil Engineer does on a day to day basis. Of course he is. Of course he is.

It’s normal, and it’s fine, and it’s— it’s too much because Harry is smiling and laughing and elegantly deflecting any sort of leading question about what the fuck exactly happened to make him haul ass back up to Illinois, and Louis— he just. He just feels so fucking stupid. So dumb for still feeling so affected by a high school relationship, for being so enamored by a person who obviously got over him so long ago.

Suddenly, it’s as if he’s a mile underwater, pressure on all sides, weight of the world above him, and he’s drowning. He’s not sure he’s in control of his limbs when he springs up, scrambling for purchase on solid ground.

“I’ve—” he chokes out. “I’ve gotta— bye.”

And he’s gone, legs moving of their own accord, stiff and heavy. He throws himself into the hallway and down the stairs of Niall’s apartment, lets the front door slam shut behind him, and falls back against the wood, breathing hard.

He’s only granted a few seconds of silence before he feels the doorknob turning against his spine. The door creaks open, and he should go, should start running, but—

“Don’t.” The word comes out strangled, tears springing to his eyes unbidden. “Harry. Just. Fucking _don’t.”_ There’s a hand on his shoulder then, pushing him forward. Footsteps follow behind and the door thuds shut again. Louis doesn’t turn around.

His eyes close for a moment, and he braces himself. Chokes it all back just like has for years. He’s about to leave— leave this all behind once again, yet again, of course again, when Harry speaks.

“Did you get my letter?”

It’s cold water over his back.

“Leave me alone.”

“Louis, please,” he hears, and the words set his hair on end. “Lou, just listen to me. I don’t want to fight, I just—”

“Fight?” he whispers. It slips out automatically, harsh and sharp. He turns, loose limbed. Three years of hurt stream to the surface. He doesn’t even know what he’s hoping to achieve when he locks eyes with Harry. “Since when do we fight?” he sneers. “Wasn’t that the whole thing? HarryandLouis, best friends before boyfriends. Young and in love and perfect, perfect, perfect? HarryandLouis don’t fight, Harry,” he reminds him coldly. “Not even when Harry fucks off for three years and writes a little apology letter. Because he _‘messed up.’_ ” He draws out the last two words and his stomach burns hot with the satisfaction he gets from the hurt that unfurls across Harry’s face. “My bad,” he bites out. “We don’t fight. I forgot.”

Time freezes on the front steps of Niall’s apartment. Neither one speaks for ages, faces unchanging, eyes unwavering.

It feels good, Louis thinks. The pain on Harry’s face feels good.

“I wanted to come back.” The words are so low, Louis could’ve sworn he’d imagined them. A new wave of heat crawls up his neck.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve wanted to come back for ages.”

Louis doesn’t think he could ever be capable of putting enough venom behind his next words. “Fuck you.”

Harry’s eyes flutter closed. “See,” he murmurers. “That’s why.” He looks up again, eyes shining. “I fucked up, Louis. I know I did. I knew I was fucking up _while_ I was doing it, and I couldn’t stop,” he whispers, voice hoarse. He heaves a shuddering breath and takes a step forward.

Louis steps back.

“Lou,” his voice breaks. “I know you’ll never forgive me. I know I’ve dug my own grave— I— I just had to tell you. I just need you to know that I’m sorry—”

“I sent you there,” Louis cuts him off, heart pounding. Three years. He’s wanted to say this for three years. “I got you there. All on my own. And when I couldn’t go, I tried to be happy for you.”

“Lou—”

“And I tried to understand that you need your space. I tried to let you make your mistakes and let you be young. I—” he falters. “I loved you so much, Harry. And you— you threw that away,” he forces out. “And now, three years later, you’re trying to tell me it was just a mistake? That you wanted to come back?”

The words are ludicrous to his own ears. “Do you even hear yourself?” his voice rises. Harry swallows hard. “You wanted to come home? _God,”_ he laughs bitterly. “Harry, I prayed you’d come home every night for months.”

Harry takes another step forward. “How could I? What was I supposed to do?” he demands. “You said it yourself, Louis! I fucked it all up years ago! I couldn’t— Lou, I’ve thought about you every night for years. I—”

“And Martín?” Louis asks coldly.

“I don’t— I don’t know!” Harry’s voice breaks. “I was nineteen and let everyone around me convince me that I’d be missing out— that _we’d_ be missing out— if we didn’t take time apart.” His arms fall open wide, palms up. “It’s not an excuse. I _know_ it’s not an excuse. But Lou, I’m— Lou, I’m just trying— I felt like shit, okay?” His arms fall. “I felt like shit for what I’d done, and I knew from a week in that I didn’t want hookups and ‘experiences’ if those experiences meant I couldn’t have you. And I felt so fucking _guilty,”_ his voices slows. “I...I stayed with him because I didn’t want you to take me back. I stayed with him and I fucked that up too because I’m ruined for anyone else, okay? I’m not supposed to be with anyone else. I’m supposed to be with you, Louis. You.”

It’s silent for ages on the steps.

“I know I don’t deserve you, Louis,” Harry replies. “But don’t ever think that I don’t love you.”

Louis leaves without a word.

——

 


	2. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

 

**Two Months Later.**

**March 1987**

**6:00 PM**

**Answering Machine — One New Message**

“Hey. It’s me. Louis, I mean. It’s me, Louis.

Niall gave me your number. Um, you’re probably at work right now. He said you get home kind of late most nights. Anyways. Um. I’m still...I feel like I have so much to say, but it’s like I don’t even know where to begin. I guess, just...I just want you to know that I think about what you said that night in January a lot. All of it.

Anyways this is probably really weird, but I was just calling to let you know there’s a new Michael Jackson album out. I’m not sure if you knew. It’s called  _ Bad. _ It just came out the other day, and I thought of you, I guess.

I haven’t listened to it yet. And I...I don’t know if I really ever want to, if I’m being honest. I...well, also, I don’t know...I never really thought he was gonna put out another album, I guess. It’s been like five years, hasn’t it? I don’t know.

I can’t even imagine something following  _ Thriller _ . And I’m a little afraid that I’ll hold every aspect of the new album up against it. Which...I...I guess, that doesn’t seem fair.

But, the thing is, I haven’t even listened to  _ Thriller _ in ages. Remember when we used to be like...totally obsessed with it? It’s part in my life has run it’s course, I think. I don’t hate it. I could never hate it… I don’t think you probably listen to it anymore either. Which makes sense, I guess. Life goes on.

Anyways. Um. If you wanna come listen to the new album sometime, just...let me know. I think, like...I think if we both remember that lightning never strikes twice or whatever— Christ, that was lame, sorry— but, yeah, if we remember that maybe it won’t be so bad.

But, uh, yeah, I guess if we like...keep an open mind. Judge it only on its own. It could be really good. Maybe try not to play it to death this time around.” He inhales deeply. “So, yeah. Just let me know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we go. It's done. Based heavily, heavily, heavily on real life events of mine, this fic was a story that's been weighing on my heart for nearly five years now, and this prompt came a long at just the right time as a perfect outlet for it. That being said folks, if you love someone, let them know before it's too late- even if you've screwed up.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. If you enjoyed this fic, [please take a second to reblog the tumblr post](http://louisandthealien.tumblr.com/post/150735047916/enter-exit-enter-by-louisandthealien-1-min) and follow me at [louisandthealien](http://louisandthealien.tumblr.com)


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